The Dislocated Room
by Writerforthem
Summary: Can you see the plot like dotted lines across the room?Here is the sink to wash away the blood,here's the whiskey,the ripped-up shirt,the tile of the bathroom floor,the disk of the drain  punched through with holes.Here's the boy like a sack of meat...
1. Chapter 1

**So i read this poem called "The Dislocated Room" by Richard Siken and it reminded me of Supernatural so much, i had to do something with it. I took each piece and wrote it out to make a story. Hope it helps you see the story i think the poem could be telling about Supernatural. **

**Disclaimer: the pieces of the poem "The Dislocated Room" aren't mine. They're Richard Siken's.  
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* * *

><p><strong>The Dislocated Room<br>**

**Part 1  
><strong>

_It was night for many miles and then the real stars in the purple sky,  
>like little boats rowed out too far,<br>begin to disappear.  
>And there, in the distance, not the promised land,<br>but a Holiday Inn,  
>with bougainvillea growing through the chain link by the pool.<br>The door swung wide: twin beds, twin lamps, twin plastic cups  
>wrapped up in cellophane.<em>

A little after midnight. Empty road. Except for one car. Its sleek black color almost blends in with the surrounding darkness, except for the shine of the moon on its hood. The perfect rumbling of its engine sounds loud in the quiet night, letting anything in a few block's radius know of its frantic race. It moves quickly through the dark roads, fast and determined towards the lights of the city in front of it.

Its driver's hands grip the wheel, knuckles white, eyes intent on the lights ahead. They're dark in the almost nonexistent light, his eyes, searching though too far away yet to see what he needs. A pitiful sound from the backseat makes his hands grip the wheel tighter and push the gas pedal down more, if possible.

"Hold on, man. We're almost there. Just hold on." His voice is forced. But the feeling is there. Just for his brother to hear. Otherwise, he'd be too numb to feel anything. "We're almost there."

Getting into the city, the light of the stars fade to nothing compared to the street lamps. The car is more noticeable. It slows down a fraction, not wanting to draw attention. No time for a speeding ticket tonight. But with a still frantic pace, it heads down the main road of the new town. Searching. Within a minute, it finds what it's looking for. It pulls into the parking lot with a small screech.

Jumping out of the car, the driver heaves a slight sigh. Glad at the quick find, he runs to the back of the car to open the trunk. He changes out of his bloody shirt. No time tonight to deal with a call to the cops for his suspicious attire. His brother needs him. Now. An hour ago. Still pulling his shirt down, he runs into the lobby of the Holiday Inn.

A little better than their usual bunking choices, it's the first place he saw and cares nothing about how much it costs. He gets a room, running back out to the car a minute later, key in hand. A key to heaven when a hospital is too far away. Twenty minutes at the least. His brother doesn't have time for that. He's already driven for ten minutes to get here.

He drives to the door down the parking lot, glad it's on the first floor. Though at this point, he could care less if he had to carry his not-so-light brother up a flight of stairs. He'd do it. He needs the room. The car is no place for him to work tonight. The damage is too great. So it's with adrenaline-powered strength that he reaches into the back seat and, as gently as possible, he pulls out his brother. He winces at the groan he causes.

"Sorry. Sorry, bro. I gotchya. It'll be okay. You'll be okay."

God, but his brother is heavy. He walks with small steps and shallow breaths, struggling with the weight but unwilling to change his brother's position from horizontal. There's so much blood. Getting all over his new shirt. Soaking it. Turning his brother vertical would only allow more blood to spill out. He forces himself forward, the hand under the legs of the man in his arms uncurling to push the key into the lock, his shoulder leaning against the door frame for support.

Kicking the door open, he goes inside as it swings wide and stays there. He can't turn on the light yet, barely keeping from dropping his brother on the closest bed. Instead, he drops to his knees, the man in his arms landing perfectly flat on the bed with only the slightest jar. He groans anyway, eyes opening for the first time since the incident.

Wincing, the brother gently pulls his arms out from under him. "Sorry. I'm sorry." He stands. "I'll be right back." And he is within ten seconds, bag in hand, door clicking shut behind him as he goes to his brother.

_And he says No Henry, let's not do this.  
>Can you see the plot like dotted lines across the room?<br>Here is the sink to wash away the blood,  
>here's the whiskey, the ripped-up shirt, the tile of the bathroom floor,<br>the disk of the drain  
>punched through with holes.<br>Here's the boy like a sack of meat, here are the engines, the little room  
>that is not a room.<em>

"Sam." His brother speaks his name as a breath.

He bites his lip as he cuts away the already destroyed shirt, heart and stomach both lurching at the blood and tearing on his older brother's chest. "It's okay, Dean. I'm here. It'll be okay." But he's not sure it will. Instead of thinking, he gets the emergency bottle of pain pills, getting water from the sink in a plastic cup from the table to get his almost unresponsive brother to swallow them.

The shirt drops to the ground as he gets the offending material out of his way when he finally gets the pills to go down. He runs to the sink, wetting a towel before returning to his brother with two, using the dry one to soak up as much of the blood as possible before using the wet one to wash away the rest so he can see what all happened. What's killing his older brother.

"Henry."

Dean speaks again, grabbing his attention as he cleans. Carefully but quickly, he uncovers Dean's destroyed torso. His stomach churns at everything revealed. It reminds him of the way the Hellhounds ripped him apart. "No, Dean. Sam. Not Henry."

"Don't, Henry. Hurts."

And it's that voice. The voice Dean reverts to whenever he's scared. Like when he had ghost sickness. That voice that tells Sam something isn't right. Though he knows it already tonight. Nothing is right tonight. He thinks hard about the name as he rustles through his bag, pulling out his stitching materials. And the whiskey. "Don't worry, Dean. It won't hurt for long."

_The Henry that is not a Henry, the Henry with a needle and thread,  
>hovering over the hollow boy passed out<br>on the universal bedspread.  
>Here he is again, being sewn up.<br>So now we have come to a great battlefield, the warmth of the fire,  
>the fire still burning,<br>the heat escaping like a broken promise, the horizon widened like an open road._

He gets to work, hoping the pain pills are working. The already sure-to-be-tender skin would hurt a million times more when the needle goes through if they aren't. His brother twitches slightly when the needle enters the skin, showing the pills are only just starting to take effect. "I'm sorry, Dean," he says again as he starts, one tear making it's way down his face when he tries to blink them away. He feels young again. So unsure about what he's doing.

He's sewing his brother up again. On a greater scale than ever before. And as he sews, the name brings back a story. One Dean told him of when he was three years old when Sam was hurt and needed Dean to talk as a distraction. How a friend of dad's, Henry, had been babysitting Dean while their parents were out. Before Sam was born. They had went to the park. And Dean had fallen from the jungle jim, breaking his leg.

Henry had helped him. Took him to the hospital, comforting him the whole way. And he had been there the whole time they put the bone back into place and put the cast on. It was Dean's first major injury. Before their dad had taught them to be strong. It was the scariest time in his life he can remember before his mom dying. And Henry had meant a lot to Dean before their dad took them away after their mom was killed.

Sam smiles through his burning eyes. He hasn't let any more tears escape. He's Dean's Henry right now. In his brother's hallucinating state, he's his first hero. Before Dad… before anyone. Someone he counted on the most as a child,the mindset he reverts to whenever something isn't right with him.

With one lamp on, he sews. One arm resting gently on the towel to put pressure over the areas of his brother's chest he isn't working on to stop the bleeding. It only half works. But he doesn't dwell on that. Stitching is more important. It will stop the bleeding. He doesn't rush though. He can't. The criss-crossing of the slashes across Dean's chest are a complicated puzzle. He refuses the need to empty his stomach that keeps returning.

He knows his brother is fighting a battle with his failing body. The blood loss is taking its toll. "Stay with me, Dean. Don't give in." His voice shakes. His hands are steady. He sews. For a long time. "Don't you dare take the easy way out, man. Don't you dare leave me. I know it'll be tempting. To take the painless road. But I need you, man. Stay with me."

Dean's eyes flicker. "Sam."

* * *

><p><em>Henry's putting his hands all over him to keep him in the room,<br>but the words keep rolling over the sleeper's lips:  
>He won't kiss me. He won't kiss me.<br>But talking about God now, not boys._

He feels the weight on his chest. Keeps him grounded. Keeps him in his immediate surroundings. In the room. In the dim light. The pain. And then no pain. Just a sensation. Pulling. And the weight. Always the weight. And Sam. Sam is the weight. A pleasant weight. Telling him he's home. Wherever he is. He's with Sam. That's all that matters. The weight reminds him he's with Sam. His awareness fades.

Then there is no room. There is Henry. Telling him to stay put. Not leave. Stay in the room. To not follow the open road. He instructs him like he did before. When his leg was broke. Tells him to push through the pain. Because when the pain leaves, he'll be better. God will kiss the pain away. Henry believed in God. He always told him he did. Said it was the only way he could explain healing. And life. Said his wife told him God kissed away the pain. Made it go away. Even when sometimes it took longer than we'd like. God kisses it away.

Then he hears his brother. Hears his shaking voice through the haze. "Don't you dare take the easy way out, man. Don't you dare leave me. I know it'll be tempting. To take the painless road. But I need you, man. Stay with me."

So he tries. Really hard. Because Sam is telling him to stay in the room too. His weight is grounding him. Tells him to not follow the open road he can see. He sees it's painless, like Sam said, but he doesn't take it. Because his little brother needs him. Though not so little anymore, he manages to think. He wants him to stay. So instead of following the road, he gives in to the darkness pulling him into a welcoming embrace. Staying put like Sam said.

"He won't kiss me," he says to himself aloud as the darkness takes him.

He doesn't know who he's talking about.

_This is the part where, this is the part where, this is the part where you  
>wake up in your clothes again,<br>this is the part where you're trying to stay inside the building.  
>Stay in the room for now, he says. Stay in the room for now.<br>This is the place, you say to yourself,  
>this is the place where everything starts to begin,<br>the wounds reveal a thicker skin and suddenly there is no floor._

Eyes open. Close. Open again. Look around as he pulls out of sleep. He's aware again. Knows where he is. In a hotel. Sam. Where's Sam? The need to find Sam overwhelms him. He tries to sit up, but a fire spreads through him. Makes his breath whoosh out with it. A grunt escapes. He struggles to keep consciousness. He takes inventory on all the sensations. Clean pants. No shirt. He has an idea why. The fire in his chest tells him why.

The door clicks open as he's trying to sit up again, doing his best to ignore the pain. He can't.

"Hey, hey, hey. Dean."

Sam is there. It's okay now. He lets himself drop. "Sam."

"I'm here, Dean. It's okay. Just stay there. Don't try to move. Just stay there."

Sam is telling him to stay again. So he does. He doesn't move. But then he's dizzy. His focus leaves. He tries to stay. Tries to stay awake. He feels Sam's hand on his arm, a fire burning at its place. A good fire this time. He hears his voice. He tries to pay attention to the words. Uses his remaining strength to do so.

"You gotta lay still, man. There's still a bullet in your shoulder. It can't move. We have to get to Bobby's. He'll get it out for us. I can't do it. And the police from that town are keeping their eye on the surrounding hospitals for someone with your injuries. They saw us kill it." Sam's voice shakes. "Can you make it, Dean? Can you hold on?"

He blinks, crawling out of the blackness surrounding him. Wants to answer Sam. "Yeah, Sammy." His voice is slurred. He tries to concentrate harder. "I'll be fine."

"I'm sorry, Dean. I'm sorry."

Sorry? Why is he sorry? His hand searches out Sam's. Finds it. Feels his brother's heat. Pulls strength from it. "No need… to be sorry, Sammy," he gets out with some work.

Feels Sam squeeze his hand. "I'll save you, Dean. I promise. You'll be okay. I won't let you die."

He keeps Sam's hand gripped in his. Doesn't want to let go. "Won't leave. Can't." He believes that. With the heat of his brother's hand in his, he knows there's nowhere he'd rather be. And something is different. Even death won't keep him away. He feels it. Knows something changed. Right now. It's the beginning of something.

Then he's falling. The bed is gone. The floor is gone. The blackness under and around him takes him. He lets it.

_Meanwhile,  
>there is something underneath the building that is trying very hard<br>to get your attention.  
>Let's say you're dreaming about a devil with red skin and black horns,<br>a man with almond eyes and a zipper that runs the length  
>of his spine.<br>A standard devil.  
>The one from the Underwood Ham label.<br>A man who is standing, cloven-hoofed, in the middle of a Howard  
>Johnson's, pointing at you with a glass of milk,<br>saying Drink this,  
>before I break your bones.<em>

He's not falling anymore. Is he under the hotel? No. He didn't really fall. He let the blackness take him. There's a voice. It knows his name. The voice makes him shiver. It's familiar. It's Alistair. But it's not Alistair. Because the owner of the voice comes into view. It's a devil. Like a cartoon devil. And it grins at him. With Alistair's grin. But it's not Alistair.

He stands over him, looking down with that Alistair grin. "Hello, Dean. Nice to see you again."

And he's burning. Feels heat move over his skin. Extreme heat. But he can still concentrate on the Alistair that's not, recognizing the voice that followed him through all of his different bodies. "Go… to Hell," he manages to spit.

Alistair laughs. "I wouldn't talk like that if I were you, Dean. You won't be able to get anywhere fast." He leans over him. "You're mine now," he almost sings.

He wants to cry out to Sam. But won't. Not with Alistair right there. But then there's a searing pain, tears welling in his eyes at the fire that courses through his chest. He groans, his voice almost lodged in his throat. He allows a breath through the pain. "Sam."

Alistair stands above him, knife handle in his hand as he grins. "Not so tough now, are you Dean?" He pulls the knife from Dean's chest.

Dean grunts, on the verge of crying out. He grits his teeth against the pain. But then there's one more wave of fire over him and he wants out. This Alistair isn't real. He knows it. He's dreaming.

_You pinch yourself but you're still sleeping. You pinch yourself but  
>you're still sleeping,<br>pinch yourself, you pinch yourself, you pinch . . .  
>but the man says take one, take it, here<br>is the first escape: pills, valves, a new velocity, and the voices  
>are getting louder.<br>You can see the grill, the pots and pans,  
>the apple pies with their big sliced grins,<br>and you can see the shadow that the man is throwing across the linoleum,  
>how it resembles a boat, how it crosses the tiles just so,<br>the masts of his arms rasping against the windows._

He tries to wake up. Tries to force himself to wake up. He tries everything as Alistair just stands over him, grinning. Laughing. He digs his nails into his palms. Moves in ways that will hurt his chest. He doesn't wake up. He's not waking up. With one more stab from Alistair, his eyes squeeze shut and he lets out a choked sound.

Then his eyes open. Things are different. He's not in the dark Hell with the not Alistair. He's back on a bed. The room has low light. But it's a different room. There are different sounds. Different smells. But one is familiar. It makes him realize he's wearing a hoodie that isn't his. Sam's. But this makes him feel safe. He takes a deep breath with his nose buried in his shoulder.

The breath makes his chest hurt. It gets caught in his throat as he groans from the pain. He hears a sound. Sheets rustling. Then his brother's voice.

"Dean?" Sleep evident in his deep tone. Gravely after just waking up. "You okay man?"

His brother's voice gives him something it always gives him when he's weak. Comfort. And something else he doesn't have the awareness to place. "Hurts," he manages to breathe.

"We still have pain pills. You can take one." There's rustling. Then he's standing next to the bed. Freakin' tall guy. "Here. Take it."

He opens his mouth, letting Sam baby him for once and give it too him. Too weak to lift his arm.

Sam props his head up, holding it while touching a cup to his lips. "Here. Get a drink. There ya go."

He does, loving his brother more than anything in the world while the cool liquid moves down his throat. When Sam sets his head back down, he sighs. "Thanks, Sammy." His eyes fall closed again.

Now he's somewhere else again. Outside. Next to the impala. Hears the radio. Wipes dirt off the front grill. The radio gets louder. Then he's in a kitchen. Bobby's kitchen. Making Sam breakfast at the age of twelve.

His surroundings change. He's in a hotel again. With Sam. At fifteen, sharing one of their apple pies. But then the pies are grinning at him. Talking to him. The voices… no… the radio gets louder. He tries to shut them out.

The sound stops. He opens his eyes. It's dark again. A man is standing over him. His shadow moves across the floor and up the wall like it's alive. Like it's just floating over the ground. Up to the windows where the wind is still heard.

_The bell rings, the dog growls,  
>and then the wind picking up, and the light falling, and his mouth<br>flickering, and the dog  
>howling, and the window closing tight against the dirty rain.<br>And he's pointing at you with a glass of milk  
>as if he's trying to tell you that there is<br>some sort of shining star now buried deep inside you and he has to  
>dig it out with a knife.<em>

A sound pulls his attention. A car alarm. A bell. A ringing cell phone maybe? A dog growls nearby. It sends shivers down his spine. The wind is getting louder. The light goes away. The sun going down. Falling. Sam is standing over him. He's talking but he can't understand him. Can't wake up enough. Just hears the smooth bass of his voice, continuous sound.

The dog howls outside. He closes his eyes, trying not to shudder at the sound. _Hellhounds._ That's what it reminds him of.

"Don't worry, Dean. Dog, not hellhound."

He said that out loud?

Sam closes the window. "Bobby called. He's ready for us."

It's raining. "Ready for us?" His consciousness fades around the edges.

"I had to stop here and take care of your fever. It's not going down, Dean. We have to travel with it."

He frowns. Sam's voice is shaking again. Sam's upset. Sam shouldn't be upset. "Fever?"

"…bullet… shoulder… damage… digging… with a knife… usual."

He's losing consciousness fast. Gathers something about a bullet in his shoulder. Digging it out with a knife. He winces internally. He hates doing that.

_Here is the hallway and here are the doors and here is the fear of the  
>other thing, the relentless thing,<br>your body drowning in gravity, but you are fighting it,  
>and you want some help, and then the help arrives but<br>it isn't helpful at all._

He's in Bobby's house now. The upstairs hallway. He looks down the line of doors. Goes to the extra bedroom Sam always shared with him when they were little. But he stops without opening the door. A sudden fear grips him. Making no sense. An unexplainable, ridiculous fear. But then he opens the door anyway, Dean Winchester never being one to run away.

He sees Sam on the bed. Sleeping. Looking like he always does when he's asleep. Like a child. None of the daily weight on his shoulders. Beautiful. And then he's drowning, emotions and thoughts overwhelming him in his startled moment by the word. That one word bringing a wave of panic. A word he's thought about his brother a few times. But never like this.

He tries to hold himself up. But he's falling. Can't stand. Legs giving out. And he's muttering a string of curses. His eyes lock back on his brother. He's drowning. Can't breathe. Needs help.

As if he suddenly knows Dean is suffering, Sam wakes up. He looks over to his brother, eyebrows drawing in with worry. "Dean? What's wrong?"

His eyes lock onto Sam's panicking. What if Sam can tell? What if Sam hates him for it?

"Hey. Dean." Sam kneels next to him. Tries to calm him down. Tries to help. "What's wrong, Dean? It's okay. It's okay, Dean. Breathe."

Sam's hands are on him. One on his chest, the other on his back. He's so close. Breathing down his neck as he tries to calm him. Makes him shiver. Makes him panic. Makes him wonder what's wrong with him.

He's not helpful at all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Part Two**

_This is the meanwhile, the in-between,  
>the waiting that happens in the space between<br>one note and the next, the place where you confuse  
>his hands with the room,<br>the dog __with the man,  
>the blood with the ripped-up sky.<br>Henry, he's saying. Who is it that's talking?_

He wakes up again. Tries to figure out what he's missed between the moments of consciousness. Well… semi-consciousness. Even now, he's only half aware. Confused. Can't figure out what's going on. Whose hands are on him. Not Sam's. What room he's in. If it's the same one from before or not. The dog's growling again. Or is it a man's voice? Grumbling?

He keeps his eyes closed. Tries to just become more aware before trying something harder. Tries to hear more sounds. Finally finds Sam's voice. It gives him peace. He's safe. It gives him the strength to open his eyes. He's being moved. Hands all over him. Carrying him. He's just starting to feel it over the heat on his skin.

His head is on Sam's chest. There's blood in the sky. No… on his shirt. Sam's blue shirt. One of his favorites, he thinks briefly. He hears the gravely voice again. Can't place it though it's right at the edge of his mind. Wants to know. Make sure Sammy is okay. But his conscious and confused thoughts are mixing together. "Henry," is the name that comes out, "who is that talking?"

"It's Bobby, Dean." The reply is said so very quietly. "Bobby came to help."

Help? Sammy can't take care of him by himself? What's wrong? Could the blood on his shirt have anything to do with this? "Sammy?" He gets the right name this time. "You okay?" He shivers. It's cold. He's being set down. Doesn't know where.

"I'm fine, Dean," the quiet voice answers. That's how Dean knows he's not fine. There's something off. But Bobby's here to help now. He trusts Bobby to take care of his Sam.

"Okay," he sighs. He lets the exhaustion overtake him to escape the unsettling mix of the heat below his skin meeting the cold in the air.

_I thought I heard the clink of ice to teeth.  
>I thought I heard the clink of teeth to glass.<br>The dog, his bowl, his sloppy grin,  
>the number of wounds, the exact sequence,<br>the words now lurching in his mouth and drifting,  
>the words now drifting away.<em>

He hears things. Familiar sounds. Sounds of Bobby's. Telling of pouring a drink. Clinking of glass. But he's still out of it. He can tell. Mostly by the weird things he's seeing. The sight of a fictitious werewolf standing in front of him. An actual huge dog. The size of a hellhound, but more human details. It's grinning at him, drool dripping from its fangs as it stalks towards him.

He doesn't have time to blink before it leaps. He jumps in front of Sam, the creature tackling him to the ground. Its claws are already in his chest, raking down it. He cries out as he feels the warmth of blood spreading. Feels every wound in the exact sequence as the first time. From the real werewolf. The number is impossible to tell.

There's a gunshot. He feels another stab of pain above the others. In his shoulder. He cries out one more time. Then the creature is falling. Lands on him. He has trouble breathing. "Sam," he chokes out. "Little help?" The werewolf is the real one now. More human than dog. But he knows he's still dreaming. This already happened.

Then Sam is there next to him. The creature is practically flung off of him. "I'm here, Dean. I'm here." His hands go to his face. "How you doing?"

He lets his eyes close. "Hurts." He feels his mind start fading from the blood loss. "A lot."

Sam takes off his jacket, rolling it up and pressing it to his chest. When Dean lets out a choked wine, he winces. "Sorry Dean." The first of many apologies to come. "I know it hurts."

He opens his eyes a little, looking up into Sam's face. "S'okay Sam." His eyes lock onto his brother's. "It'll be okay." He grimaces as he's moved. Choked sounds grate through his throat at lurching intervals.

"It's okay, Dean. It'll be okay. I'll fix you up."

Sam is still talking as the blood loss finally takes him. The words drift away.

_He puts his hands, he's putting his hands,  
>he puts his hands all over you to keep you in the room,<br>but here is the Angel of Cornflakes and Milk,  
>and here is the Angel of Open Wounds,<br>and here is the Angel of Wash You Clean,  
>the Angel of Taking It All Away.<em>

He's aware yet again as someone is sitting him up, making him wince at the pain in his chest. Someone's sitting behind him. Sam, he recognizes as he's leaned back against a ridiculously muscled chest, supported against him, ridiculously long legs on either side. A ridiculous heat surrounds him and he opens his eyes, awareness flooding in as indignation surges through him. "Why am I in your lap?" his voice growls.

Sam chuckles softly behind him. The first good sound from his brother he's heard in… however long it's been since the face-off with the werewolf. He takes comfort in the warm sound. "Relax tough guy. You need to be sitting up to eat. Do you think you can eat something? Fever's gone down thanks to Bobby. You haven't eaten in days. Let me feed you?" The last part in his rambling is a soft question.

He lets his head rest back on his brother's shoulder. An interesting and possibly compromising position if anyone else was around. But no one is. And he has the sense to admit he wouldn't be able to sit up otherwise. "Breathe a word of this to anyone and I'll kill you."

"Says the guy who jumped in front of me and took the werewolf." His brother's voice is sharp. Unintentionally, he guesses by the way the body tenses behind him after.

"Sorry," he murmurs.

His brother doesn't answer. Only holds up a bowl. "Bobby only has cornflakes. He went out to get more food. I figured this was a start."

"Okay," he offers softly. And then he does something he never thought he'd let his little… well… _younger_ brother do. He lets Sam feed him. A bowl of cornflakes cereal, complete with milk. He realizes he was starving.

"One bowl is enough, I think," Sam says softly when it's gone. "I don't know what I'm doing, really." His voice is hesitant.

"I'll be fine, Sam."

"C'mon. We need to change the bandages." Sam carefully gets out from behind him, leaning him down gently to rest against the armrest of the couch. "You okay?"

He can't believe how coherent he is right now. "Yeah."

Sam nods, unbuttoning the shirt he had put on Dean when transferring him to Bobby's. He gently gets it off his older brother's arms, dropping it on the floor before carefully removing the bandages.

Dean grimaces against the sting. But this is something he's felt before. Familiar. He watches as Sam's long, gentle fingers remove bandage after bandage, frowning at the criss-crossing lines on his chest. It looks bad.

Sam sees his frown. "It was pretty bad," he almost breathes. His puppy dog eyes look up at his brother. "I did what I could, Dean. It was…" his breath shudders, "it was a puzzle."

He puts his hand to Sam's arm. Locks eyes with him. "It's okay, Sammy."

Sam nods at him, blinking away the wetness from his eyes before returning to his work. Then looks up again. "I know this is a stretch… but… you need to get clean."

He turns to look at the wall. Doesn't answer for a while. He appreciates Sam's patience. He eventually answers, "I'm sure you've already done it." He doesn't look away from the wall.

"Well… you don't exactly stop bodily functions just because you've passed out."

He grits his teeth.

"Dean." Sam's voice is gentle. "You've taken care of me before. There's no difference. Besides, this time I can just get the top half of you. And maybe help you to the bathroom."

He lets his eyes close. Takes a deep breath. Nods once. He lets Sam slowly help him stand, gritting his teeth against the pain in his chest when he moves. He only lets out a single groan. Forces Sam to ignore it. He makes it to the bathroom, forcing his brother out. But as soon as he hears the toilet flush Sam's back, supporting him as he leads him out and back to the couch.

Sam leaves and comes back with a wet rag, giving his brother a questioning look. Puppy eyes and all. When he gets a nod, he smiles brightly, sitting on the edge of the couch and slowly moving the warm rag over his brother's face, neck, one arm, the second arm. Then he moves to his chest, carefully rubbing around the stitches. The whole while, Sam's touch is incredibly gentle.

He can't help but relax under his brother's administrations. He can always count on Sam to take it all away.

_We have not been given all the words necessary.  
>We have not been given anything at all.<br>We've been driving all night.  
>We've been driving a long time.<br>We don't want to stop. We can't stop_.

He thinks as Sam washes him. Even though they're close, he's not stupid to think they've ever had great communication. He and Sam have gotten into some nasty fights. Physical and not. And they've had some pretty good talks, he's actually proud to admit. But they've never had any of the words necessary to tell each other just how much they care about the other. Sure, they've touched on it. But never made sure the other knows. He's thinking maybe they should. After this close call, it sounds nice.

He doesn't have much. Hasn't been given much throughout his life. The only constants have been the Impala, Sam, and hunting. Not counting them, the world hasn't given him anything at all. Even though he doesn't ask for very much. Even Sam had most of what he wanted taken away. Now he's back to three things too. Dean, the Impala, and hunting. He wants to keep Sam with him. Wants him to know he cares.

He's become content with their lives to a point. From one state to another. They've been driving. All day. All night. All week, month, year. A long time. They just keep driving. He doesn't want to stop. He has Sam with him. Without hunting, he and Sam wouldn't be together. He also can't stop. It's all he knows. All he really feels that he can do. He can't let it go.

_He's standing over you.  
>His hands are open or his hands are fists.<br>It's night. It's noon. He's driving.  
>It's happening all over again.<br>It isn't happening. It's love or it isn't. It isn't over.  
>You're in a car. You're in the weeds again. You're on a bumpy road<br>and there are criminals everywhere,  
>longing for danger.<em>

He starts to fall asleep as his brother finishes. His eyes close as Sam stands. He lets his fatigue take him. Finds his thoughts continuing into his dreams. Sam always seems to be standing over him. The tall freak. Six foot four of little brother always seems to be the one looking down. And he always seems to be looking up.

Once before, when Sam was brainwashed by a ghost in a psychiatric ward, Sam had stood over him as he had lied on the ground looking up. Sam had his hands in fists, a gun in one, ready to shoot him. Good thing he gave him the empty gun. But so many other times, he had looked up to his younger brother's hand open and offered to him. To pull him to his feet. Help him up.

There have been so many times when they were equals. He remembers night drives. Midday drives. Sam driving. A privilege he only allows his brother. Trusting him with his baby. And it happens again and again. And then it wasn't happening. Once when he thought his brother was leaving him again. He wanted to tell his brother he loved him. But what brother ever says that? So he didn't. But it wasn't over. Sam came back. Saved him even.

And they had driven away together again. Hunting again. Many hunts. In the woods. The weeds, mud, and bugs. On the highways to the bumpy, dirt roads. After creatures and criminals when they stumble upon the occasional crazy human. They look for danger. They're crazy, but if they don't do it who will? There are very few hunters in the world.

_Open the door and the light falls in.  
>Open your mouth and it falls right out again.<br>He's on top of you. He's next to you, right next to you in fact.  
>He has the softest skin wrapped entirely around him<em>.

He wakes up again. Getting tired of the tiny glimpses of reality in between the overwhelming hours, or what seems like hours, of dreams and nightmares. He sees it's dark. His biological clock is so screwed up. He's in Bobby's spare bedroom. He closes his eyes, sighing when it drags back one of the dreams. With Sam in the bed. But then something makes a sound.

The door opens, a sliver of light glowing on the floor. It closes, and Sam walks over to the bed. "There room for me?" he asks when he sees he's awake.

He wants to say no. Because they're almost in their thirties. A little too old to want to share a bed with your brother. But really… he _does_ want to. Just for tonight. Because maybe that way he won't have nightmares. Maybe he can use the excuse of being hurt to be weak for once. To need his little brother.

And really, with the hopeful look on Sam's face right now, maybe the little brother wants it too. To keep an eye on him. Make sure he's okay. And it's not like they haven't had to before. When the rooms with two twin beds were full. Sure they got suggestive looks, but they didn't have a choice. Or nights where wherever they were staying didn't have heat, they shared to keep each other warm.

He finds himself saying, "There's always room, Sammy."

The smile Sam lets loose gives its own sliver of light from the brightness of his teeth. Like the way the light fell in from the door. It's white though, from the moonlight shining through the window. In a second, he's climbing over him to the empty side of the bed so he doesn't have to move.

He's a little shocked when Sam's arm rests gently on his stomach, just under where the stitches start. But he doesn't say anything. Just closes his eyes with his brother laying right next to him. Even smiles when in a few minutes, soft snores sound in his ear. It isn't long before Sam scoots even closer, cuddling him. He rolls his eyes affectionately. Sam always has like physical comfort. Cuddled to the point of ridiculousness when they were little.

He lets his eyes fall closed again, feeling his brother's warm, soft skin against him. There's so much of him. He lets himself curl into the warm embrace, hoping the nightmares will stay away. Uses his giant of a teddy bear brother to keep the dreams at bay. Lets weakness move in, knowing Sam is there.

_It isn't him.  
>It isn't you.<br>You're falling now.  
>You're swimming.<br>This is not harmless.  
>You are not breathing.<br>You're climbing out of the chlorinated pool again.  
>Is there an acceptable result?<br>Do we mean something when we talk?  
>Is it enough that we are shuddering from the sound?<em>

There's a gasping sound. It isn't Sam. It's not him. Or is it? He's falling now. Again. But not through the bed or floor. Just falling. Now swimming. Struggling. Fighting against the current trying to pull him under. This is bad. Dangerous. He stops breathing. Can't breathe. Still struggling. Swimming. Fighting to get out. Chlorine burns his throat. Chokes him. Keeps him from breathing.

But then he makes it. Breathes again as he pulls himself out of the water. But there is no water. Just choking. The command to not breathe. And he wonders… is there ever going to be an end to this? An acceptable end where it'll all go away? Does it mean anything when we ask for an end? Do we ever get the result we want? Is it enough that we shudder at the sound of our own pleading?

That's what he does now. Asks. Pleads. To any and every god that could help him. He knows he's on the verge of death. And he has a good chance of doing so soon. But he doesn't want to die. To hurt Sam like that for the second time. To leave Sam again. Be alone. Without his little brother. Heaven or Hell, he doesn't care. It'll be the same thing if he has to leave without Sam again.

_Left hand raising the fork to the mouth,  
>feeling the meat slide down your throat, thinking<br>My throat. Mine. Everything in this cone of light is mine.  
>The ashtray and the broken lamp,<br>the filthy orange curtains and his ruined shirt._

In a split second he remembers a scene. A day not long before he was dragged to Hell. A few weeks before maybe. In a motel room just outside Ohio. Eating his dinner-remarkably well with his left hand because his right was still hurting from the night's hunt-while Sam slept. His mind was in dark places while he was virtually by himself. Eyes moving around the room.

He had thought, mine. Everything here is mine. My body. My belongings. This motel room. Mine for the night. The paint peeling from the walls. The unused ashtray to the broken lamp. The horrible orange curtains. Sam's ruined shirt on the floor. He blinks at that thought, eyes moving to the other bed. He thought, Sam. Sam is mine. My brother. My partner in crime. My walking fact book. My six foot four giant.

He had frowned. In a few weeks he'd be Hell's. And his life… his Sam would be left up here. It wouldn't be his anymore. He'd abandon it. Because of a stupid deal. His eyes rested on Sam's sleeping form again. No. Not stupid deal. A desperate one. But now he's going to lose Sam anyway.

He left Sam a few weeks after that. Lost him to Ruby he found out when he came back. He will not make the same mistake twice. He _will not_ leave his brother again.

_I've been in your body, baby, and it was paradise.  
>I've been in your body and it was a carnival ride.<br>You're inside you.  
>He's inside you.<br>He's between the two of you.  
>You're the residue.<br>Gold bodies in a red red room._

In the next second he's reminded of Hell. Alistair is back. Standing over him again. Eyes as black as night. Taunting him. Reminding him of how for years, he had cut into him. Got deep inside him.

"You were hell's most wanted, Dean. And _I_ was the one who got to cut into you. It was a paradise like you couldn't imagine."

"You're dead," he chokes out. Desperately hoping his mind works with him on this. "Sam killed you."

Alistair's eyes look back into his. "Does it look like I'm dead?"

One second he's himself. The next, Alistair is deep inside him. Right over his heart as if trying to cut it out. His blade, an extension of his arm, deep inside him. But for some reason, he can't move. Can't even make a sound now. As if paralyzed.

Alistair is still there. A barrier between him and Sam. Just like he was when he was in Hell. Always between them. Now he can't even call out to him like he did in Hell. He can't move. Can't make a sound. Stuck. Like he was hung in Hell. Like residue on the end of a fish hook. In the weird light they were all just bodies hanging in a red, red room. Trophies of hell.

_You're here.  
>You aren't here.<br>You're the room.  
>You're in the room.<br>You aren't in the room.  
>Stay here for just a little longer.<em>

Then it's like his brain loses all ability to function properly. He's in Hell. Then he's not. He's a room. No, focus Dean. He's _in_ a room with Sam. Then not in the room. Darkness. Complete nothingness. He hears Henry's voice. Sam's voice. Together. Both of them telling him to stay here a little longer.

* * *

><p><em>They want to stop but they can't stop.<br>They don't know what they're doing.  
>This is not harmless, the how to touch it,<br>we do not want the screen completely lifted from our eyes,  
>just lifted long enough to see the holes.<em>

"Bobby, I can't."

"We can't stop, Sam. You're brother is _dieing_. You have to get the bullet out."

"Why can't-"

"I already told you. I don't have the hands for it, boy. But yours are practically surgeon hands. You'll cause him less discomfort. Won't destroy the wound so much. It can't take much more. Especially with how close the bullet is to his heart."

Sam looks to Bobby, panic and desperation evident in his eyes. "I don't know what I'm doing, Bobby."

His father figure softens at his voice. So much fear in it. "Sam, you've helped Dean more times than anyone. You can do this. Save your brother."

"What happened to your doctor friend?"

Bobby chuckles humorlessly. "Got found out. In jail."

Sam deflates.

"Sam, your brother needs you. Now more than ever. You can do this."

Sam looks to Dean. More settled than before, but still breathing hard. He had been so close to losing him. The bullet has moved. Most likely from all of the moving around he had Dean do yesterday. Sam frowns. This is his fault. He has to fix it. "Knife." His voice sounds like it's coming out through a cheese grater.

Bobby hands over the small blade, sharpened to a surgical thin edge. "Just do it quick Sam. Once you cut him open, you gotta do it quick."

Sam feels bile rise up in his throat. He's about to cut open his brother's shoulder. The infected, unhealed wound. He pushes his need to throw up away, putting a gentle hand to is brother's chest, holding him still. He feels his brother's heart start moving slower. The tranquilizer is starting to work. Hopefully the numbing medicine is too.

He bites his bottom lip to the point of drawing blood as he carefully slides the blade over the bullet wound. This is against his every instinct. Being the one to cut his brother open. But he feels a slight twinge of thankfulness when the blade makes a perfectly clean cut. It moves almost too easily through the skin. He swallows thickly.

This isn't harmless. Not like stitching up is. Not like he's always done. He has to shut himself down. Leaving just enough of a window in his mind open to know what he's doing. Looking at it objectively. Like a screen to the part of his mind that screams at him for hurting his brother. Just enough of an opening to see the bullet wound.

_Tired and sore and rubbed the wrong way,  
>rubbed raw and throbbing in the light.<br>They want to stop but they can't stop.  
>They cannot get the bullet out.<br>Cut me open and the light streams out.  
>Stitch me up and the light keeps streaming out<br>Between the stitches._

Sam's tired. Been tired. Hasn't slept for more than five hours total in the past three days. Was just letting himself relax an hour ago when Dean stopped breathing. Jolted him out of any hope that they could just leave the bullet in. Tore away any other option than getting the offending object out and hoping the infection will go away.

He's digging now. Eyes focused though tired. Hands moving steadily and objectively. Trying to ignore the fact that this is his brother. Thinking of it as the game Operation, getting the bullet out without pushing it into his heart or deeper into his shoulder where they'd have no choice but to take him to the hospital.

His head throbs with a headache, wishing he didn't need the light overhead to see. He wants to stop. Wants to stop digging in his brother. But he can't. And still, he can't get the bullet out. There's no giving up now though. They've already cut him open. The blood is steadily coming out. They need to finish. To stitch him up. At least that way the bleeding would be less between the stitches.

_He cannot get the bullet out, he thinks, he can't, and then he does.  
>A little piece of grit to build a pearl around.<br>Midnight June. Midnight July.  
>They've been going at it for days now,<br>getting the bullet out.  
>Digging out the bullet and holding it up to the light, the light.<br>Digging out the bullet and holding it up to the light._

In a split second, he gets a hold of it. Heart leaping in triumph. He gently pulls, maneuvering it out of his brother's shoulder. After three days. That midnight in June to tonight in July. His face splits into a radiant smile as he finally holds it up to the light.


	3. Chapter 3 Nonwincest

**Haha! I lied! lol Well actually I just got smarter. Finally finished this part. If you want the less pg-13 version I'll post it as a post by itself soon. Needed help from a friend for that one. So this is the non wincesty ending. thanks for reading guys. Sorry for the wait on this.**

* * *

><p><strong>Part 3<strong>

It's almost a whole day before Dean stirs. Around ten o'clock the next night. Sam is laying next to him on the wide bed. Where he's been since he and Bobby carried him up here. Besides bathroom breaks, Sam hasn't left. When he was gone, Bobby was keeping watch. They don't want a repeat of the other night when Dean stopped breathing and not be there to help like Sam was last time.

Every hour, Sam has cleaned the wound and put new bandages on. By the time Dean starts to stir, it's less red and has already started healing. Thanks to the single dose of antibiotics Bobby had, it's finally healing. After three days of festering and this one more of trying to stick around, the infection is leaving. With the bullet gone, the healing process should be able to finish.

Sam is studying Dean's face when he wakes up. Starting with a groan to his eyes opening. They blink a few times before his head moves so he can look at Sam. His gaze is tired but focused. It makes Sam smile. Dean manages a small smile back. "Hey."

Sam smile gets bigger, reaching his eyes. "Hey yourself."

Dean just lays there a minute, remembering with clarity the unclear things his mind had gathered and conjured. It almost amuses him. It must show on his face.

"What are you thinking?" Sam asks curiously.

Dean looks to him. "That I think I know what an acid trip might feel like now."

Sam chuckles, relief coursing through him. This is Dean. Even when he had woken up the other day he didn't joke. "I missed you."

Dean's face softens before he rolls his eyes, going back to his normal 'no chick-flicks' persona. "I remember everything. Real and in my head. It was pretty bad, huh?"

Sam's smile leaves, making Dean curse himself for doing that. "Yeah. It was… it was bad."

Dean frowns now. "You okay?"

Sam looks down at the sheets, picking at them. "Not really."

"What's wrong? Talk to me Sam. I miss a lot in… how long has it been?"

"Four days."

Dean lets out a whistle. "I miss a lot in four days when I'm not coherent."

Sam doesn't look up. "It was my fault."

Dean scowls. "Sam." His voice is harsher than he intended.

Sam grimaces.

"There will be no blame placing on anything or anyone but the werewolf."

"But I shot you."

"Not your fault. Close range sent it through the werewolf. You kept me from being even more shredded. And unrecoverable." When Sam doesn't look up, Dean's fist shoots out to punch his shoulder. He groans in pain as Sam lets out a "Hey!"

Sam forgets is irritation when Dean groans. "Geeze, man. Don't move your arm. You're still healing."

Dean growls. "I'm gonna hate this."

Sam grins. "Probably."

He feels suddenly tired, letting his head fall back to the pillow. "I hate being tired all the time."

Sam lets his head fall on his pillow too. "You're healing. Relax. Let me be your shield for once. You'll be back to normal soon."

"Mmmm. In the meantime, you need to actually eat something." He smiles a little though his eyes are closed.

Sam frowns at him. "How'd you…?"

"I know you, kid."

"I'm not a kid."

"You'll always be my kid brother, Sam." When he feels Sam's frown, he amends that. "In the sense that I'll always need to care for you."

Sam lets what he was going to say go in favor of something else. "Hey, Dean?"

"Hmm?" He's already mostly asleep.

Sam shakes his head, rubbing his brother's shoulder before letting his eyes close too. "Never mind." He settles into his side of the bed, glad it's big enough that he doesn't have to sleep on the couch. After the four days he's had, he has some rest to catch up on too.

* * *

><p>Sam shares the bed with Dean as he recovers just like they did when they were kids. Dean just feels bad subjecting Sam to the tiny couch in the living room since the last time when Sam's back started hurting. Sam hogs the covers, snores on occasion, and drools when he's really out of it. But Dean allows it though he uses every chance he gets to complain about it. Sam knows he doesn't mean it.<p>

Two days after he woke up he insists on getting out of bed. Along with cleaning his wounds himself. He sits on Bobby's couch mostly, lounging with Sam and talking to him and Bobby about the days during his sickness. He finds out Sam had to kill the werewolf's mate when it hunted them for revenge. That's what the blood on his blue shirt was from. And why he sounded tired.

"I should kill you for handling that thing by yourself."

"Uh, Dean, in case you've forgotten, you were pretty out of it. I don't think you would've been much help."

Dean rolls his eyes. "You could have called Bobby sooner."

Sam rolls his eyes back. "Anyway, it was just after I stopped because of your fever. I was glad you stayed asleep during all the moving I did to you. Whenever you were awake you wouldn't be able to keep from letting me know you were hurting. It made things a lot harder."

"So I let you know, huh?"

Sam chuckles. "Yeah. It was almost a relief to actually know you were hurting unlike when you try to hide it from me. It let me know when to give you more pills."

Dean shrugs. "I've never had pain this bad before either."

Sam's face crumbles for a second before smoothing.

Dean still notices. "Sam, I'm fine now. It's okay."

Sam nods, not very reassuring but he continues with his story. "Anyway, a while after I got you settled, I started hearing things outside the motel. I went to investigate. If it turned out to be too much trouble I would have gotten you back into the car and left. I wasn't about to risk anything causing more trouble for you."

"The werewolf really tracked you that far?" Dean asks incredulously.

Sam snorts. "Surprised me. Leapt out at me when I went around the back of the motel. Didn't have silver bullets in my gun. Didn't even think that's what it'd be. Didn't know there were two of them."

Dean sighs. "Yeah, I don't know how I didn't see anything to tell us that."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Don't even start. I didn't see anything that led me to believe the thing had a mate either. And I'm the smarter one." He smirks.

Dean glares. "Continue with the story, bitch."

Sam grins. "Jerk. Anyway, it got me good on the shoulder as I was getting back to the room. That's the blood you saw on my shirt," he says, nodding to Dean.

Dean frowns. "You're hurt?"

His younger brother looks almost guilty. "S'why I had to call Bobby. My stitches would rip if I carried your heavy ass."

Dean chuckles, even as he reaches over to touch where Sam's hand is absently running over his shoulder. "It healed?"

"Mostly."

He nods. "Good. If it was anything bad I'd hurt you for keeping it from me."

Sam snorts. "Yeah. Sure you would. So anyway, I had to search for the silver bullets while the thing was attacking the door. Found them, and climbed out the window in the bathroom to go around and shoot it. But it must have heard me. Jumped me as I was coming around the corner. Tackled me, making me lose the gun. I kicked it off, grabbed the gun, turned, and shot it."

"So just bruises from that, huh?"

"It's really killing you that you weren't there, isn't it?" Sam asks, amused.

Dean glares. "Just making sure you're okay when I couldn't do my job."

Bobby chuckles. "Bull."

Dean pretends to not hear him. "So then you called Bobby."

"So then I called Bobby," Sam confirms.

* * *

><p>It's four days after Dean woke up, eight days after the attack, when the more shallow of the gashes on his chest are healing nicely. He starts to worry about scaring. There's a lot of marks for potential scars. It'll be ugly, he's sure. Two days later, the first stitches start coming out on their own. Eight days after he woke up he's up and walking around more. Testing his limits. The infection is long gone.<p>

About a week and a half, ten days after, he looks at himself in the mirror after removing his bandages for the last time. The gashes are healed enough to be held by the stitches. The deep gashes are still healing. Still red and more puffy. The more shallow ones are just pink lines. He sighs. He looks like a little kid's attempt at sewing. Like he has the chest of Frankenstein.

"Not so attractive now, are you Dean?" he grumbles to his reflection.

He keeps a shirt on at all times. Redirects Sam's questions on how he's healing. Until Sam finally has enough.

"Show me."

"No."

"Dean…"

"Sam…" Dean mocks.

Sam glares. "Don't make me go get Bobby."

Dean raises an eyebrow. "You're threatening me instead of going for it yourself?"

"I don't want to hurt you," he grumbles, glaring. "Now show me on your own, or Bobby and I will make you do it anyway."

Dean puts his hands in his pockets, huffing out a sigh as he looks away. "Why can't I be the judge of whether I'm healing or not?"

"I want to see this through."

Dean looks back in surprise to see Sam's bottom teeth biting down into his lower lip. "What?"

"I want to see this through," he repeats. "I want to make sure what I did turned out okay. And that you're really okay." He resorts to the puppy eyes. "Please? I want to have some… closure I guess on this whole thing. You almost died on my watch Dean. A million times."

Dean pouts. Literally pouts. "How do you do that, Sam?"

Sam tilts his head. "What?"

"Make me feel bad and want to show you to make you feel better."

Sam smiles a little. "Little brother charm?"

Dean rolls his eyes, turning away. "Damn you."

Sam grins. "What's the big deal anyway?"

Dean huffs again, pulling his shirt over his head before turning back around. "This is the big deal."

Sam feels a punch to the gut when he sees the lines crisscrossing his brother's chest. His jaw clenches as he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Then he walks forward. He runs his fingers over a few of the worse looking lines to see if they're healing well, half grinning up at Dean when he sees the goose bumps. Then frowns when he sees Dean looking away. "Hey."

Dean looks at him, slightly glaring. His eyes widen and the frustration melts away when he sees the look in Sam's eyes.

His younger brother's eyes are filled with genuine love and adoration. "Thank you." He moves his hand up to rest right over the tattoo that matches his own right over his brother's heart. "For everything."

Dean looks away, but looks back a second later, eyes soft. "Never need to thank me for saving you Sam. It's always going to happen."

"Don't kill yourself in the process though. Okay?"

Dean smirks a little. "I try."

Sam smiles gently back, taking his hand away from his brother's chest. "I know." He takes a step back, jerking his head towards the door as he gives his brother a small grin. "Come on. Your baby is dirty. She needs a wash."

Dean grins, following Sam without a second thought towards a shirt. Sam always seems to make everything okay. Besides. If Sam doesn't care, who else matters? Not like there's anyone else here besides him and Bobby anyway. "What'd you do to her?"

Sam rolls his eyes. "Nothing Dean. She just looks like she needs a little TLC. She is your most precious possession after all."

Dean touches Sam's arm to stop him in the hallway and prepares himself to allow a chick flick moment. A moment of weakness. Because honestly, Sam deserves it after the past weeks he's had and it can easily count as the 'I almost died' confession. "Sam."

Sam looks to him curiously.

"Thank _you_."

Sam smiles softly. "Never need to thank me Dean."

He looks down the hall, avoiding eye contact. "And you're wrong you know."

Sam tilts his head, frowning. "About what?"

Dean forces himself to at least look in the vicinity of Sam's face. "_You_ are my most precious possession. _My_ only real blood relative left. And from the moment dad gave you to me the night of the fire, you were _my_ little brother. So… I just wanted you to know that. So there's no confusion or anything."

Sam clenches his jaw, blinking through the slight sting in his eyes. "Thanks. Really. Thanks, Dean."

He nods, rubbing the back of his neck self-consciously. "You saved my life. Again. It's the least I can do."

"No," Sam corrects, a small smile back in place, "talking about your feelings is the _most_ you can do."

"Shut up. Bitch." He starts down the hallway again, a smirk on his face, glad the moment is over.

Sam smiles, keeping step behind him. "Jerk," he murmurs fondly.


End file.
